


Recall If You Can How All This Even Began

by quietwandering



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: M/M, moz being a big sad, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietwandering/pseuds/quietwandering
Summary: See this mess and forgive someone
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	Recall If You Can How All This Even Began

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to avoid doing emotional fics just because there's already so many out there for these two, understandably, but I just can't ever resist an opportunity to write about them together in current times, even when it's so friggin' sad. 
> 
> General warning for in depth talk about depression
> 
> Title is [Forgive Someone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtmIKQFLrtw) by Morrissey

I picked absently at a loose thread of my pajamas, lost in thought. My phone sat in my lap with evidence of the early hour glaring back up at me. I hadn’t slept last night. I didn’t sleep much the night before, either. No amount of designer pills or vintage wine had lulled me into the welcome numbness of unconsciousness. The hour of the black dog was at hand once more. 

Worse, the only man that could provide me the slightest amount of comfort was miles away in Manchester. A phone call was the reasonable alternative, much as I detested them, but such a blow to my pride was almost untenable. Because the luxurious life I led, the extravagant houses I owned, the immaculate cars I drove? They all came from my will to survive, my need to prove that I could pick myself back up from the ashes. So why did I still so deeply love the man who had caused the fire in the first place?

The answer, I suppose, was obvious. I was an inconsolable mess, then and now, and Johnny had given all there was to give to hold me together, withering away to nearly nothing. All because my jealousy consumed me. My pen couldn’t touch paper without a violent retort against the one who did nothing but try and console me, piece me back together time and time again.

Shutting my eyes, I leaned against the headboard to calm myself, to breathe. I could feel tears, but I wouldn’t indulge myself in such pettiness. They would get me nowhere. Instead, I pulled myself from bed to get ready for the day and lose myself to routine: shower and shave, toast and tea. 

Damon called around noon to check in, and, despite my bleak mood, I found myself assuring him I’d be fine till he was back next week. After all our years together, I knew such false platitudes wouldn’t assuage him, knew my clipped answers and indifference were clear signs that I wasn’t well, but I was able to divert enough of the conversation to save myself from him getting an early flight home to care for me, as if I were an ailing child at the tender age of 61. Though some days that didn't feel too far from the truth.

A brief walk outside served as a good distraction for my temperament, hysteria not feeling so near at hand in the late autumn wind, but I clutched at my phone all the while, knowing I was ever closer to giving in. I always did. Of course, Johnny would answer no matter when I rang, short of being in the middle of a gig, so, despite the late hour, I sat down on the edge of my bed when I got back home and dialed his number, entirely out of excuses. 

Only a few moments passed before I heard the line connect. A wild barrage of noise assaulted my eardrums initially but was soon cut off, my ears ringing dully in the aftermath. “Sorry, sorry. I was in the studio. Not my home studio, a mate’s rather,” Johnny said with his familiar, boundless energy. “Everything okay, Mozzer? You alright?” 

“No,” I replied. “I’m not.” 

There was the sound of footsteps, of doors being opened and closed, and the clink of glass. “You wanna tell me what’s up then?” 

“Not particularly.” My response didn’t matter, Johnny knew that. I certainly didn’t call just to exchange pleasantries. “Orange juice?” 

“Mm, lemonade. I made some earlier,” Johnny said, and I heard the sound of a chair scraping along the floor. “Beautiful out in Manchester today. Not a gray cloud in sight if you can believe it. Thought I’d do something to celebrate.” 

I pressed my traitorous smile into the back of my hand and wondered how Johnny could so easily make me do that after all this time. “What happens when the rain comes back tomorrow?” 

“Oh, you know the answer to that one, luv.” I did. Hot cocoa. Made on the stove if possible, not from a packet. “Me mum came by with a sponge cake earlier on, too. _Divine_.” 

“Does she still make the lemon biscuits?” Johnny hummed affirmatively. “Send me some. Heaps of them.” 

We sat in comfortable silence for a long while, and I took refuge in the soft, slow rhythm of Johnny’s breathing intermixed with the occasional sips of lemonade. Pushing my trousers and shirt off, I pulled myself tiredly beneath the blankets. “I’ve just not slept well these past few nights, is all.” 

“What’s kept you up?” Johnny asked, gently. The answer was evident in my silence. “Just talk me through it, Moz. I’m right here.”

The tears that’d been threatening to break free all day finally slipped out in painful rivulets. “Johnny.” My voice was strained, as if the name had to tear itself free from me. “ _Johnny_.” 

“It’s alright, luv. You know I love you, more than anything,” Johnny murmured, so genuine, and I didn’t know if I hated to hear that or not. I wanted to be scorned by him. I wanted to be forgotten, a lost footnote in Johnny’s incredible life, but the years that passed only more firmly tied my heart closer to his. Unsurprising, really, when an entire ocean's worth of distance didn't diminish my reverence for him. “You remember the drive down to Rough Trade, hm...1983?” 

“1984, in January,” I corrected. 

“The snow was miserable, wasn’t it? You were freezing, you'd been using my coat --"

"Andy's coat."

"As a blanket, and we pulled off so I could get some coffee --” 

“No, a cuppa with too much sugar. You bought two Flakes and ate both. You didn’t even offer to share.” 

“I reached over and held your hand as we drove back off down the M1," Johnny continued indifferently, more than aware I still held a profound grudge over that. “I told you we were unstoppable, remember? That we’d do everything that we were set out to do. That's when I told you I loved you for the first time, and I still love you, Mozzer - just as much as I did then. Probably more ” 

“I would’ve been more inclined to believe you if you'd not been laughing while you told me." 

“ _Well_ , I had a bit of a sugar high,” Johnny said apologetically but in no way was actually sorry. “I meant it though, Moz. I do love you. I’ll never stop.” 

Wiping away the tears, I rolled onto my back and finally let my eyes shut. “Sing to me,” I whispered. “I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.” 

Johnny’s footsteps echoed through what sounded like an empty corridor, and I heard the sound of another door and the familiar feedback of an amp. A few flat strings were strummed before they were tuned, and my heart ached at the sound, Johnny’s voice honeyed and deep. “ _No, it’s not like any other love. This one is different, because it’s us._ ” 

I clutched at the phone with trembling hands, hardly able to breathe. My entire body ached. I wanted nothing more than Johnny there with me, arms around me again, holding me tight enough that I couldn’t hear the snapping, vicious maws of that horrendous black dog in my mind. 

The chords progressed over into _Work is a Four Letter Word_ , and I felt a laugh slip out of me before I could stop myself. “Y’know, I think I’ve finally got it down,” Johnny mused. “I think I just needed some more jangle on it.” 

“You’re awful. Just awful,” I replied, sighing. I knew I would finally be able to sleep again. “You'll visit soon?” 

“Only if you promise to open the door.” 


End file.
